


eet

by elliptical



Series: to own a galaxy [7]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Assisted Suicide, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, discussion of suicide, internalized ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 18:51:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6251503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliptical/pseuds/elliptical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following his rescue from a fate worse than death, Sollux Captor has a difficult time adjusting.</p><p>(Please mind the tags.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	eet

**Author's Note:**

> this work contains a lot of talk of suicide and suicidal thoughts/impulses.  
> i know for every work in this series i end up saying to mind the tags, but for this one in particular, please especially mind the tags.  
> the views of certain characters in this fic are products of their experiences, and don't reflect my own views. if you struggle with suicidal thoughts/ideation, please please please seek mental health help.  
>   
>  _it's like forgetting the words to your favorite song_  
>  _you can't believe it, you were always singing along_  
>  _it was so easy and the words so sweet_  
>  _you can't remember, you try to feel the beat_  
>  _you spend half of your life trying to fall behind_  
>  _using your headphones to drown out your mind_  
>  _-eet, regina spektor_

Your name is Sollux Captor, and you're going to cut a motherfucker.

It's been three perigrees since you were rescued from a fate worse than death, which logically you know isn't long enough to become as you were. You were kept in a sensory deprivation chamber for sweeps, experiencing all the fun of mania and depression and hallucinations without being able to move or contact anybody. The only reason your pan isn't soup is because you perfected the art of dissociating so hard your surroundings no longer impacted you, which is... a hard habit to break.

And your pan isn't as it was to begin with. Sensory deprivation for so long means that your senses won't calibrate correctly, which means half the time you process information wrong and the other half of the time your response to "scratchy blanket texture rubbing arm" is "kill the other motherfucker in the room."

You have yet to murder anyone, but it's definitely not for lack of trying.

Right now your agitation has very little to do with your senses and much more to do with how obnoxious rehabilitation is. As if reminding you of your total inadequacy isn't enough, you have to face it in multiple ways every single night. Diminished lung capacity? Check. Cardiac damage? Check. Muscle atrophy? Check. An inability to control your psionics? Check. An inability to regulate your emotions and communicate using language that makes sense?

An inability to be even remotely useful?

Fucking check.

You slam the book you're trying to read shut. "This is schoolfeeding for three-sweep-olds."

"No, it's schoolfeeding for whoever needs it." Aradia rolls onto her side beside you, playing with your hair. "It's helping restore the connections between written language and..."

"I know what it's fucking doing!" you snap, and throw the book across the room.

She keeps her hands in your hair. "Okay," she says, patient as ever. "We'll take a break."

The urge to rake your claws across her cheek rears up, itches in your chest. Your fingers twitch. You want her to be something other than patient and kind, you want to see the sides of her you used to, the Aradia that's dangerous, the Aradia who (needed no) wanted to be with you because you could reciprocate her affections. This is how things have always been with you - she slows you down in the midst of mania and pulls you up during depression, she keeps you from melting down and you keep her from throwing herself to dangerous impulsivity and doing things she'll regret.

Except that's not you two, not anymore, because you need (want? no) her more than she's ever going to need you, and you hate it you hate it you fucking hate

Your breathing becomes labored. Violent instincts have been a problem for you in the past, sure, though much more so for her - and neither of you has ever raised a hand to the other.

(those first few weeks don't count, when you couldn't remember who she was or understand what she was saying or stand her touch)

"I fucking hate this," you say, leaning back against the pillows.

"You're doing really well, Sollux."

"No I'm not!" you snap. "I'm not - not - not - I can't - it's fucking, fucking, I can't even remember the word! _Degrading._ It's fucking degrading."

"There's nothing wrong with needing help."

"Fuck off. Forget it."

"Sollux," Aradia says, softer. "Let's talk."

"Fine. Talk."

She laughs. "I meant you talk."

"No. Fuck it. I'm too mad."

"Okay. You want to just lay down for a while? Keep things quiet?"

A pause, as you turn the option over in your mind. That's a better idea than pushing yourself until you can't help lashing out at her, especially since she's not the one you're mad at.

"Yeah," you say. "I need a nap."

\---

The outlet for your anger comes later in the night, when you're facing your ancestor. For the most part you've ignored him beyond the necessity, but he has to help with your physical therapy because he's the only psionic who can stand up to your power. Generally you stay quiet because there's something supremely awkward about trying to forge a relationship with a guy who's thousands of sweeps old, shares your genes, and is piling your best friend.

But tonight you're brimming with agitation that you haven't been able to release (look, Sollux isn't trying to kill people! Sollux is keeping his emotions to himself! Sollux is acting like Normal Sollux! Sollux is Getting Better!), so before the medics have even removed your dampeners, you say, "Aradia told me you turned me in."

Your ancestor doesn't flinch. The urge to punch him in the face multiplies.

"That was nice of her," he says.

"Fuck you," you say. "You turned me in."

The medic's hands pause. "Fuck you too," you tell them. "Dampeners off and get out. I can't kill him."

They're not about to argue with you, especially when they have an out. Thirty seconds later your dampeners are off and the power surges back through your body, an undercurrent of energy that fucking itches. You're not going to be able to hold onto it, angry as you are - even calm you haven't been able to control your powers, and you press a hand over your chest as you struggle to keep your breathing even.

"I turned you in," your ancestor says, now that the room is empty, "because you were a traitor, and your alliance with the Heiress was dangerous."

You throw all of your power at him before you can think.

The thing about psionic power is that it's raw energy. For you, who has both kinds of common psionics, it's hard to keep a balance. You can lock mental fingers around any object in this room and rip it to shreds or reshape it to your liking. You can melt metal, set wallpaper aflame, make someone's heart explode. The power thrums under the surface of your skin, so anger and out-of-control emotion have always been dangerous. An average troll feels anger like a pressure in the chest, bile rising in the form of screams and vitriol and raised fists. The tightness in your chest is from something else entirely, and if you don't choke it down then there are disastrous consequences.

So you've never let go like this while completely in your own head. The energy rushes out of you like a dam breaking, all focus narrowed on the center of his chest, like you can burrow all the way through and out the other side. You can tear through this entire ship. You can gut the metal and crush it into nothing and leave smoking craters in your wake. You can collapse on yourself like a falling star and take him with you, both of you, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him fuck him FUCK HIM

The wall of his resistance keeps you from reaching him. You push harder, screaming with the effort and the rage, trying to find a chink in the defense to funnel all of your anger into. He pushes back, almost gently, like you're playing the most fucked up game of tug-of-war imaginable.

You spend your oxygen before you fully burn yourself out. You can't wear an oxygen tank with the dampeners off, given that one misplaced spark will make the whole fucking thing explode, so your knees fold under you as your blood pusher struggles to keep up. You toss a few more bolts of red and blue at him, weaker now, mostly out of spite. But when your vision finally clears enough for you to make out any of the damage, he's standing in the middle of an untouched room, looking for all intents and purposes like you didn't do anything. The only aftermath of your tantrum is the faint smell of burned hair.

"Okay," the Helmsman says. He closes the gap and kneels in front of you, tilting your chin up. "Feel better?"

You feel really, really tired. But also less likely to break someone's nose, which is good.

"Yeah," you say. "Go fuck yourself."

"You're welcome."

"Eat me."

"It's a lot more satisfying to hate a person you can hit than a system."

You draw back from him. "You're easy to hate."

"So I've been told. Time to scale back, though. The Empress has enough reason to dislike me without me pushing you into another heart attack."

You keep breathing. Your blood pusher is irreparably damaged from both the stress of powering a colony and the two heart attacks you've had already. FF could only do so much to keep you from dying. It's a miracle you aren't dead at all.

"I'm broken," you say. It's a thought you haven't let yourself face, and a thought you should work out with AA instead of voicing to your infuriating ancestor of all people. But he knows a thing or two about crazy, if any of the stories you've heard are to be believed, and you can't stomach Aradia's assurances of no, you're fine, you're good, there's nothing wrong with you and you're recovering and that's good.

Your ancestor gives you an odd look, close enough to pity to make you reget saying anything, far enough to make you wonder what he's thinking.

"Yes," he says after a moment. "You are."

A little of the remaining fire cools in your chest. That's all you need. People follow the extremes of believing you're more broken than you are or believing you're perfectly fine, and you're not either of those things. You aren't about to be tied down by those who want to think you're a wiggler and you can't stand the ego wound of not living up to expectations.

"I'm angry," you say, "that I'm like this."

He nods. "I know."

"Fuck you."

"I know." He settles back, sitting crosslegged on the floor. "You haven't sparked once during this conversation, though."

"What?"

"Usually you spend the whole of this time cresting the edge of a meltdown. You aren't now."

"Because I just had a meltdown, fuckface."

"An intensely focused beam of psionic energy, yes. You didn't damage anything in here. You just needed to expend the anger." He holds his hands out to you. "Let's start."

His hands don't look like yours. They're scarred a thousand times over from the time he spent in the helm, old and discolored, knobby knuckles and rings of dead skin around the joints. You look at them as you place your palms on his. Your own hands are young, thin and long-fingered and riddled with burn scars, but not like his. When you focus only on the image of them together, you can forget how much he looks like you.

"All right," he says. "Center your power."

"Fuck you, I'm not... meditating." Your tongue trips when you forget the word, but if he notices he doesn't mention it.

"I'm not asking you to meditate. I'm asking you to center your power the way you have for your entire life. You have to train yourself back into it because what used to be unconscious now takes conscious effort."

You snarl your frustration. "I just used all my power."

"Used all your excess power. And centered it without thinking. Your aim was perfect."

He doesn't compliment you, ever. Not about minor victories, not about recovery, not about your power levels. You get the sense that he's not the kind of guy to get invested in people unless they impress him, so the word "perfect" throws you off and you don't have a good comeback.

"Figure out where you're holding your power," he says patiently, "and keep it there. You spark and misfire because you don't hold your psionics steady, which makes them run through the wrong channels. It's like water escaping cracks in a dam. You can't control your psionics until you steady them."

The energy under your skin is a hell of a lot fainter now, but it sings through your whole body. He's right. You don't remember the psionics ever being so present or so hard to control before, so you close your eyes and tuck the power close to your chest, hiding the worst of it in a tight ball under your ribcage.

"Okay," he says. "Now push at my hands."

You filter the power through your palms and push downward, harder with the passing seconds, agitated that you can't make him move.

"Now cut the power off," he says after a few moments.

Pulling back by yourself is harder - you feel your cheek twitch as you do, brow furrowed with concentration.

"There you go. First time you haven't sparked."

"I tried to kill you earlier."

"Eh. Stronger people than you have tried to kill me. You were basically a mewbeast batting at my shins."

You push your power back at his hands, but instead of the steady stream from earlier, the static crackles in the air. Your ancestor raises his eyebrows.

"Pull it back," he says quietly.

"Fuck you."

"It's harder to pull it back when you're angry than when you're calm." The corner of his mouth quirks up. "You're a very emotional psychic."

" _Fuck you_ ," you snap. Just because you're less physically volatile doesn't mean you're any less pissed, and if there's anyone you want to feel it then it's him.

"If you keep letting your state of mind dictate what you do with your powers, you're never going to stop being dangerous."

"You're one to talk!" You're too mad to call up all the words you need, but that doesn't stop you from trying and tripping anyway. "You're in - in fucking - fucking - military, fuck... _dampeners_ except when you're working because you're _shit_ at controlling anything!"

"And yet I'm better than you. Funny how that works."

You hook your psionics into claws and rake them across his cheek with enough precision and quickness to take him by surprise. Then you get back to your feet, heedless of the fact that you should be resting and the world is swaying a little.

"I'm done here. Fuck off."

"Sollux."

It's hard to make a dramatic exit when your legs threaten to buckle on every step, but you move for the door without breaking stride, and even when he calls your name again you don't look back.

\---

You are fucking useless.

You remember how you used to be before all of this happened. Angry, yeah. Bipolar, yeah. Rarely happy, yeah. But you could usually put those things aside to get shit done. You were the one who networked the rebellion, who protected KK and TZ and TV from early drone detection, who researched helming, who planned and plotted and strategized. Sure, you did most of that from the protection of your hivestem, and you weren't exactly throwing yourself into physical battle, but you _mattered_ to people. It made a difference when they lost you.

It doesn't matter now. You're not stupid. You know they fought to get you back. You know they did that because they care about you, not because they needed you to be a soldier. But you're not how you were. You're never going to fucking _be_ how you were. You're lucky you even retained the ability to think and speak, forget fully unscrambling your pan.

Your body's too damaged to risk helming. It's going to take a lot of practice to get your coding back up to par. You're relearning to read at a five sweep old level because you get dizzy trying to make language stick. You don't have the political weight you once did - FF doesn't need you in her quads to get psions behind her, not with everything she and TZ have done, not with your ancestor as the poster child for freed slaves.

FF pities you for all the wrong reasons now, too. You two aren't... you're not how you used to be, considering everything. You were supposed to be on equal footing. You were supposed to be her ship and matter because you're the best of the best and you know it, you were supposed to reform the galaxy, you were supposed to...

But now she pities you because you're useless, like you're an injured cuttlefish she wants to trap because it makes her feel good. She's got a lot on her mind. You don't blame her for wanting to take care of you, but she's not AA. AA's the only one who's gotten anything right yet.

And AA... she's a historian, a preservationist. She has an important life outside of you. A life she's been ignoring for perigrees so she can stay by your coonside and

oh, god, you're holding her back, you're holding everyone back. It's not enough to suck at stuff. You have to bring everyone else down with you.

You know you can't walk far before your legs give out on you, and there's a fifty-fifty chance of setting something on fire if you try to float. You find an empty storage closet and shut yourself inside, since no one will bother you here, and pull out your palmhusk.

TA: hey ff we need two break up.  
TA: 2orry two do thii2 over text.  
CC: W)(at?  
CC: Are you ocray? Are you wit)( Aradia?  
CC: Sollux?

You close that window, draw in a sharp gasp, and tap apocalypseArisen.

TA: hey aa ii'm breakiing up wiith you.  
TA: before you a2k no iit'2 not a joke and ii'm tryiing two fiigure out a way two be 2en2iitiive about thii2 but iit'2 ju2t a thiing that need2 two happen.  
TA: 2ometiime2 thiing2 ju2t need two happen and ii know you know that 2o.  
TA: 2orry. you 2hould book a 2huttle before we get farther away from your colony long triip2 2uck.  
TA: thank2 for everythiing and yeah. 2orry.  
AA: sollux where are you  
\--twinArmageddon's palmhusk shattered!--

Aradia finds you ten minutes later, since you're half a hallway from your ancestor and one hallway from your block. If you could get anywhere, you'd be hunkered down on the other side of the ship by now, but without an oxygen tank it's hard to breathe and your legs are... well, your legs.

"Sollux."

You're curled up by some outdated computer wiring, staring at the shattered remains of the palmhusk you threw at the wall. "We're breaking up," you say, but the half-choked way it comes out probably isn't convincing. "Yell at me all you want. It still needs to happen."

"Feferi messaged me." She flicks on the dim overhead light and pulls the door closed. "You're dumping all your quadrants at once?"

You shrug.

"Okay," she says, kneeling in front of you. "We need to go back to your block so we can get your dampeners and oxygen back on. Then we'll talk. You aren't breathing well."

"We're _breaking up._ "

"That does not negate the need to get you back to your block." She holds out a hand. "C'mon. I'll help you."

This leaves you with the option to

a) pitch a fit and make life harder for everyone, or  
b) go with her, breathe easier, and then pitch a fit and make life harder for everyone.

You go with option B. Your chest hurts too much right now to make it through any sustained yelling.

\---

"Okay," AA says, laying on the mattress beside you. "Why are we breaking up?"

"Our relationship has run its course."

"I see." She touches your shoulder. "You aren't pale for me anymore?"

"I don't want to be pale for anyone right now. Or red."

"Okay. What changed?"

"I'm sick of being pitied."

"Okay." She scoots away. "If you're feeling suffocated, I'll leave you be so you can have time to yourself."

"I don't need the constant re - re - _fuck_!"

"Take it easy. Talk slow."

" _Reminder that I'm helpless._ "

"You aren't helpless, Sollux." You snarl at her, and she adds, "You're disabled. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that."

" _I'm not fucking disabled!_ " you shout, but yelling exhausts you so much that you sink down harder against the pillows, panting. "Disabled is - is - is TZ being blind but making it, making it anyway because she's fucking _badass_. Disabled is TV sprouting fucking wings to make up for legs that don't fucking, fucking work. This isn't _disability_ , this is _cullworthy_ by both - fuck - definitions because I'm a useless _parasite_ and I know it and you know it and FF knows it."

Aradia touches your shoulder again. She doesn't interrupt you, though, so you keep ranting.

"Stop pretending I'm not fffucking broken. I can't keep pretending I'm not broken. My pan's half gone, my nerves don't work right, I can't control my psionics and I can't _fucking helm._ At best I get better enough to be an average pissblood in a sea of pissbloods. At worst FF keeps cooing and making sad eyes at me like I'm a grub forever. Either way, everything about - about me, everything I wanted, my whole fucking _identity_ is gone."

Your chest hurts with a combination of lack of oxygen and tears. Your throat's sore from choking them back. "I will not make you play pale for me to fulfill a promise we made when we were five. You've got a life now. One I don't belong in. You and FF and TZ and KK all have lives now. I'm fucking nothing. I'm not disabled, I'm worthless. You should have killed me."

Aradia curls her fingers around your hand. "What if the roles were reversed?"

"What?"

"What if I was the one who'd been taken by the Empire, I was the one who's struggling now? Would you think all the same things about me? Jump ship because I'm not exactly how I used to be?"

"That's _different._ "

"Different how?"

"Because I - because you - you - I'd be stationed on this ship. I could, could balance my job and helping you instead of having to pick one or the other. And because you're Aradia. Like I could stop, stop loving you even if you couldn't talk or all the joy had been sucked out of you or whatever. Fuck that."

"I'm Aradia," she says. "And you're Sollux. And I love you just as much as you love me."

"Fuck you," you groan.

She rubs her thumb in slow circles over the back of your hand. "Come back to the preservationists with me."

"I don't like getting down in the dirt."

"The colony isn't all nature. It's a planet of libraries. And tech research. I think you'd like it."

"Great. So I can be reminded of how well I used to read and code."

"So you can get back to reading and coding like you want to."

She settles down, anchoring her arms around your waist. You swallow.

"You're not happy here, Sollux," she says. "I would like you to be happy."

You bite the inside of your cheek and search for a spark of what used to drive you, of anger or jealousy or mania, but all you find is hollow ache. "I don't think I'm going to be happy anywhere," you say.

She holds you tight, and that's enough talking for tonight, so you drift to sleep.

\---

You're willing to face FF before you're willing to face your ancestor. She's the Empress now, sure, and directly responsible for saving your life, and fucking terrifying in stature now that she's an adult. But she's also still FF. She's the girl you put everything on the line for, the girl you wanted to belong to, the girl who became the unfortunate recipient of your first inexperienced flushed fumblings. A grown troll now, and a badass to boot, but...

You two have a history. You remember your past selves. But you don't know each other very well in the present.

You sit down together in front of one of the many aquariums on the ship. This is not a conversation you're going to have laying on your mattress, with her hovering over you. This is a conversation you're going to have with both of you on equal footing. Mostly-equal footing. Equal sitting, at least.

"So," you say, "that gross emotional fit I had sure was something."

"Isle say."

"I think, uh. I think you and me really do need a break, though. But it was fucked up of me to do it over text, so. Here. A real breakup."

Her earfins flutter, but she nods. "Can I ask why?"

You hesitate, but you're not known for your tact and you've never been less than honest with her before. "You've got sort of, uh, a complex about lowbloods."

"A complex?"

"I mean, not just lowbloods. Anyone or anything weak, sick. You want to fix them all."

"I'm trying to make things better for people," she says with a jaw-set stubbornness that makes you think this isn't the first time she's had this argument. You wonder who else yelled at her.

"I'm not saying you shouldn't! I just. Fuck." You cross your legs, hating yourself for the slowness with which the words come to you, appreciative at least that she isn't interrupting. "Before all this, there were a lot of reasons we liked each other. I was really good for the revolution. My psionics were powerful. I could code, I was intelligent, I could protect you and your people. I could be your ship. It made sense politically. And now all those things are gone and the way you treat me feels like... like I'm a wiggler and you're my lusus. Like you think I'm a grub in need of swaddling and saving. And my pan's fucked up but that kind of suffocation isn't the help I need. It doesn't make me feel cared for or, or special. It just makes me feel like more of a burden."

Fef looks away from you, feigning interest in the aquarium, her fins folding down. "I don't know how to treat you, then."

Yeah.

"Tell me what to do, Sollux," she says softly. "Tell me how to fix it."

You turn toward the aquarium as well, more interested in studying both of your reflections than the fish. You've put on weight since your rescue, but you still look half-dead, and she's radiant. Your stomach hurts remembering how much you loved her, how much you still do. But not all adolescent romance is meant to last. Not all of it can stand this test of time.

Would things be different, if you were in a condition to helm? If you hadn't been taken? If your pan was fully intact? If you'd had these past few sweeps with her? Would things be different, or would they have ended just the same, but with you locked into a career you couldn't escape?

"I believe you have good intentions." Your shoulders are shaking. This is one of the hardest things you've ever had to do. "I believe you're good for the Empire. I believe you're going to make this world better. But you're not... good for me, right now. Not with how I am. I believe we could fix things. That's not the problem. The problem is that I can't hold your fronds and teach you. I'm too tired. It takes too much energy to preserve this, and I need to use that energy for other things."

"I'm sorry." She swallows and finally looks at you. "I've been so caught up in being Empress that I think I got excited aboat somefin that felt easy. Like I cod heal you and hold you until you felt betta. You're..."

"I'm what?"

She shakes her head. "I won't say somefin that just digs my grave. I'm sorry, Sollux. I'm so sorry. Aboat all of this."

About the Empire, about her attitude, about being a highblood blinded to her privilege. About your imprisonment, about your damage, about moving on. About saving your life.

"Me too," you say, and. Well. That's the end of that.

\---

You face your ancestor again three nights later, not because you want to confront him but because you want to get a hold of your psionics. When you enter the room, though, he's sitting at a new table in the corner with a tray of coffees in front of him.

"Come sit," he says. "We have time to take your dampeners off later."

You groan. "Hell no."

"I'm not going to antagonize you. See, I have coffee. It's a peace offering."

"How's it made?"

"Yours is black. There's cream and sugar on the tray."

Ugh. Fine. Coffee is a sacred peace offering, so you guess you can put up with him for a few minutes. If the need rises, you'll just walk away and not come back.

You make your way over to the corner on your shaky legs, sitting down and dumping all of the cream and sugar available into your drink. Your ancestor raises an eyebrow. You think it's because of the sugar intake, but after a moment he says, in a tone bordering on wonder, "You like your coffee the same way I do."

"Clearly we share a deep genetic bond that could never be rivaled by quadrants or friendships." You stir the cream in until the coffee turns white. "What do you want."

"Have you considered braces to help you walk? They might help." When you bristle, he holds up a hand and adds, "That was a legitimate suggestion, not an insult."

"The option was offered. I didn't take it."

"Stubborn." He sips his coffee. "You could have your legs cut off and you'd drag yourself places hand over hand rather than using a four wheel device, wouldn't you?"

"I thought you weren't going to antagonize me."

"It's hard not to antagonize you. But no. That's not my intention."

"So what is your intention. Get to the point."

"I heard you left the Empress." He pauses, but when you just stare at him, he shrugs. "Good for you."

"Yeah, well. I know you've probably been rooting for the demise of our relationship since before I was rescued, but it still kind of sucks to dump the person you thought you'd spend the rest of your life with, so. Shut the fuck up."

"Sorry."

You weren't expecting him to apologize. "What is it that you really want."

He glances toward the closed door, like he's making sure no one can listen in. There's a bare pause.

"I want to make you an offer," he says.

"An offer." You snort, tipping back your coffee. "You have fucking nothing to offer me."

"I do, actually." He puts his own coffee down and leans forward, palms flat against the table, voice low. "If you want to die, I will help you."

What.

"What."

"If you want to die," he says again, slow, so close that his breath tickles your skin, "I will help you."

"Excuse me?"

"I can kill you painlessly, if that's what you decide you want."

You don't know how to react. What's the proper emotional response to your ancestor offering to assist your suicide? Offense, derision, rage, laughter, fear?

Gratitude?

You've been staring at him for a few seconds, and it's with great effort that you wheeze out a, "What the fuck?"

You almost expect him to burst into laughter and ask why the hell you're taking him seriously, but he doesn't.

"I believe the option should be available to you."

And there's the emotional response, now that the world's started moving again, but it dips much more toward anger than happiness. "Because you turned me in. Because you feel guilty. Because you don't want to have to see me. Because you want me dead. Because I'm not _good enough._ " You're shaking. "Just say it. Just say you want to kill me because I'm a drain on resources, I'm a waste, I'm a fuckup. Just say the old laws are right and I disgust you. Don't fucking pretend you're doing it for me."

Your ancestor doesn't move. "I do not think you're a waste or a fuckup," he says. "And I am not disgusted by you. I do feel guilty."

"So that guilt translates into, into, into wanting me gone so you don't have to be reminded of it."

"No."

The firmness makes you pause. Your ancestor has always been bluntly honest about everything from your power to your state of mind to your nonexistent relationship. He doesn't do anything to spare your feelings, so you have no reason to believe he's trying to spare them now.

"The Empress brought you back from the brink of death twice," he says. "The time you're living now is borrowed by her powers. I do not agree with her decision to save you."

So he does want you dead. That stings, but at least now you're speaking the same language. "So you want to kill me to fix some - fuck, what's the word - perceived natural wrong? Is it religious? Medical, fuck, advancements and psychic powers interfere with fate?"

"I don't give a fuck about fate." He's staring at you with an intensity that almost hurts. "But I am a firm believer that people should not be made to live lives that they don't want to lead. I think it's cruel. The idea that you should be stopped at all costs from ending a life you don't want is... absurd, to me. If a troll doesn't want to be alive, who are other people to decide that's not their choice to make?"

"A lot of the ghosts Aradia talks to killed themselves," you say. "They don't end up at peace. They just end up worse off than they were alive."

"Fair. I just believe trolls are the best judges of their own minds."

"And if they're sick, or not thinking rationally?"

"If people have a fundamental right to live then they have a fundamental right to die. You won't change my mind on that."

Even for you, it's easy to see where the philosophy comes from. He's been kept alive so far past his limits that of course he believes suicide is a viable option. You've heard enough sad stories from AA not to seriously consider it. You have considered it, in the idle way people fantasize about meeting their favorite celebrity. But you've never gone farther than, "The airlock is there if I need it." All you've wanted is to curl up and disappear from existence without all the messiness.

"So," you say. "Why haven't you killed yourself yet?"

"Mmm." He tilts his head. "I am almost always thinking about it. Ironically, having the option open is comforting enough that I don't feel the need to take it. If I ever need to die, I can. That's enough for me."

"So you would. If things ever got bad enough."

"Without a doubt."

You frown hard down at your coffee cup. "KK would never forgive you if you killed me."

"I am aware."

"FF wouldn't either."

"I know."

"You'd fuck up everything you have just to..."

"The Empress will not let you die. Neither will your moirail. I'd fuck up everything I have to make sure you have the choice, yes."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't." He shrugs. "And I know what it is to suffer better than they do. I will not harm you if you decide you want to live. All I'm offering is assistance if you want it. Nothing more, nothing less."

"I. Can I. I mean, can I think about it? My head's spinning."

"Of course. I wasn't going to do anything without giving you time to think." He shrugs again. "Would you like me to call in the medicullers? We should get started."

You swallow and nod. "Yeah. Okay."

\---

You're not sure if you should be more worried that your answer wasn't an immediate no, or that it wasn't an immediate yes.

You believe your ancestor. You've got no reason not to. You're watched closely enough already that he has no reason to drag suicidality out of you if he's just going to turn you in. And now, with the idea woken in you, with the need to consider it fully enough to answer him, you feel a little sick.

Not because you don't want to die. You're just not sure you want it _enough._

You want to fade away. You want to disappear from everyone's collective consciousness as though you never existed. You want to be a ghost, a shade who doesn't have to recover or struggle or face his own failures, a shade who doesn't have to see his failures reflected in people. You want to have no loved ones, to curl up, to shrivel into dust and be forgotten.

Killing yourself won't achieve that. Nothing will. You've made your mark in people's minds. They will remember you whether you give up now or not. They will grieve you whether you're worth grieving or not. They put so much into saving you, and if you die now then you're just spitting in the face of their efforts. Ripping away something they wanted when they were so close.

On the one hand, it's not about them. It shouldn't be about them. You're the one who's in pain.

On the other hand...

On the other hand, KK won't be able to handle your death. FF will cry. TZ, though she's half a galaxy away, will get that stony-faced mouth-downturned look she had for a sweep after Vriska's death. AA... if you come back as a ghost, AA will kick your ass, but the thought of her leaving your body shrouded in her colony's forest makes you nauseous.

She's laying beside you now, like she usually is, tracing idle patterns on your forearm. You must open your mouth a hundred times, the words dying in your throat. _I think I'm going to kill myself._

You can't say it. You can't breathe.

"AA," you manage eventually.

"Mmm?"

"I need to borrow your palmhusk."

"Of course."

When she hands it over, you tap your way into your Trollian account and send your ancestor a message.

TA: don't giive me the optiion.  
TA: ii'm not goiing to be able two 2top my2elf from takiing iit.  
TA: and ii know ii don't want two do that two people.  
TA: thank2 for the offer. make 2ure ii liive, no matter what future me 2ay2. future me ii2 an iidiiot.

It's not until later, when you pass an airlock, that the urge rears up and chokes you. You stop walking before you can tell yourself to pass by, feigning the need to catch your breath. You don't need your ancestor's help. The ship's going too fast for them to even find your body, if you do this. All you have to do is type in the shuttle launch code, step into the chamber, and...

And disappear.

That's all it would take to disappear.

You glance up and down the empty hallway, raise your hand to the keypad, pressing the first number. 3.

All you have to do is take one step. 8.

And the burden's gone. No one has to put up with you. No one has to cry over your body. You don't have to be relevant anymore. You don't have to get better. You don't have to be a shell of yourself. 9.

Your fingertip hovers over the last digit, and nausea and dizziness rear up again. You remember your last messages to your ancestor. How can you expect him to be responsible for you if you won't be responsible for yourself?

You sink down hard against the wall opposite the airlock, the unfinished code blinking at you from the keypad. 389-. 389-. 389-.

You couldn't get back to your feet if you tried. You can't reach the keypad to finish the sequence. Instead you pull out your new palmhusk and press the speed dial, your hands shaking too badly to type the number manually. She picks up on the second ring.

"AA," you say. You're cold and clammy. You're definitely going to throw up.

"Sollux," she replies, and then, because she can sense distress in two syllables, "Sollux, where are you? What's wrong?"

"I think," you say, and have to pause to lose your lunch all over the floor, your stomach spasming, "I think. I need help."

\---

You go with her back to the preservationist colony. There are too many ghosts on the Battleship Condescension. At least one of them is you.

Mental health help isn't exactly a priority for your species. People weak enough to want death get it. People sick in the head die or murder with wild abandon. People with injuries like yours die. That's how the world is. That's how things are. The whole idea of recovery, of putting resources toward those who might not want saving, who might not give back as much as they get...

It's a great philosophy and all, but it's not how the world is. Not yet. FF's working on it, on changing the attitudes and getting people the resources, you know that. But the professionals know how to keep you alive. They don't know how to make you want to live.

You and AA work on that instead, tucked into the back of a shuttle, and it's humiliating that you've been reduced to this, embarrassing, but she's the only one who sees. She's the only one who sees, so why the fuck are you still clinging to your pride? You make a few dozen different lists, pin the most important ones to the thermal hull.

List Of Reasons Sollux Captor Is Still Useful:  
1\. Helped Terezi Pyrope avoid at least three assassination attempts thanks to psychic powers.  
2\. Not afraid to asskick the Empress.  
3\. Good at papping.  
4\. Makes Aradia Megido happy.

List Of Reasons Sollux Captor Is A Good Troll (almost exclusively written by AA, grumble-agreed upon by you):  
1\. Loves his friends and family.  
2\. Makes ridiculous sacrifices for people, often to the point of dumbassery.  
3\. Loyal.  
4\. Brave.  
5\. A fucking warrior.

"This is all stupid," you tell her as she writes that one. "Any worthwhile troll is all of those things."

"You must be a worthwhile troll, then." She takes your hand and drags your fingers down the list. "Look. Your goodness isn't determined by being smart or able-bodied or a helmsman. There are better things to take pride in."

"These are dumb things to take pride in."

"No, they aren't."

"Being loyal and brave doesn't get results. None of these things do, except the sacrifices, I guess."

"But this isn't a list of things you've done for people. This is a list of things that make you a good troll."

You grunt.

"And," she adds, taking your face in her hands, "if you're going to judge yourself by your accomplishments, you've got quite a few. Feferi most likely owes the success of her challenge to you. You networked the rebellion. You kept us safe. Pretty much all of us owe our lives directly to you. This world owes itself directly to you."

"That's not..."

"Those are facts," she says firmly. "You can't argue your way out of them. And if you're really worried about not being worth saving, don't be. Everyone owes you. Even if they didn't, you'd still be worth saving."

"Bullshit."

"Not bullshit. Sollux." She rubs her thumbs over your cheeks. "I know you don't believe me. I know you're not mentally capable of seeing it right now. But I don't lie to you. I want you to live. More than that, I want you to want to live. Okay?"

"I don't... know how to do that, AA."

"I know. But we're going to figure it out. Look at me. I'm going to help you. We're going to figure it out."

And that's... that's as good a reason as any. Your ancestor keeps living under the promise that one night, he'll die. You'll keep living under the promise that one night, you'll be glad you did.

"AA," you say. "I'm really fucked up."

"I had noticed that, yes."

"Tell me - tell me the truth. Don't bullshit me. Do you think I can get better?"

"You already are getting better."

"I don't feel like I am. Do you think I can get better enough to notice?"

She pulls back from your face, squeezes your hands instead. "Yes. I do. I don't think it's always going to be easy, but it will be worth it. Yes. I think you can get better. I do, without a doubt."

"Okay." You breathe out. You're not quite sure you believe her, but...

"I trust you," you say softly. "I trust you."

And that's. That's good enough for now. You have a moirail who loves you, you have people to lean on, you have a new home and a new life waiting for you far away from the expectations of everyone else. You have options. You don't know if those options will all work out, but you won't know until you exhaust them.

You're not sure you're going to be okay.

But the options are good enough. And for now, that's a good enough reason to stay.


End file.
